Just a week before Jessie's wedding, I sat alone in the deep window of the drawing-room, thinking of my desolated future, and weeping those still tears that one learns to shed after much sorrow. It was sunset. Young Bosworth and Jessie were in the garden, and I could hear their happy voices coming up from among the flowers. As I sat there, so dreary and loveless, some person entered the room. I knew by the tread that it was Mr. Lee, and tried to conceal myself; but he came directly to the window and stood at my side, looking out upon the glorious view. In those times I was timid, and almost afraid of his presence; so, rising quietly, I attempted to leave the window. But he begged me to remain. There was something that he wished to say. I sat down, trembling with dread. Was he about to tell me, what I knew already, that Jessie's marriage would render my stay at the Ridge impossible? I would not wait for that, but said at once,-- "Oh, Mr. Lee, it is quite unnecessary. I know what propriety demands. The very day she leaves home, I shall go back to the old farm-house. It will not be an unhappy life." "But I have come to prevent this," he said, in a low, strange voice. I looked up in sudden surprise, a smile was trembling on his lips. "Never, if I can help it, shall you leave a home which owes half its sunshine to your presence. Without you, the old place would be lonely indeed. You must not all forsake me at once." "But it is impossible!" I faltered. "Even kind old Mrs. Bosworth would set her face against it. I might, perhaps, stay with Jessie," I added, with a piteous attempt to smile; "but she has not invited me." "Because she knew from the first that I could not give you up. She guessed how dearly I loved you, almost before I was sure of it myself." I felt myself turning white. This great happiness was beyond all realization. I looked timidly in his face, and read in his eyes what I had never dreamed of before. He sat down by me very quietly, and, with a little gentle violence, drew my head upon his bosom. I could hear the strong, irregular beating of his heart, and his words, so persuasive, so manly, charmed away the shock and tremor of his first sudden avowal. "I have not spoken till now," he said, "because circumstances, that we will never speak of, have made me for a time doubtful if they ever would be forgiven by a proud, good woman like yourself. But I love you, dear girl, with my whole heart and soul; first for your own sake, and next because the angel who blessed our home so long, owed everything to your care. She loved you dearly, and said it with her last breath." I was sobbing upon his bosom. The memories so sad and touching which sprung out of his words flooded my heart with tender grief. Yes, she loved me; and that, perhaps, was the golden link which had drawn his soul to mine.